


In Need of Re-Conditioning

by snarry_splitpea



Series: Order and Re-conditioning [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Come untouched, Dubious Consent, F/M, Handsfree Orgasm, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarry_splitpea/pseuds/snarry_splitpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phasma has an obsession.  A touch of corrupted light in her heart.  She summons FN-2187 to a laboratory in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Need of Re-Conditioning

Strapped in and stony-faced, FN-2187 stared at the opposite wall as instructed.  Not questioning the late hour.  The privacy.  His nudity.  His eyes never flickering to watch her circular pacing around the articulated gurney he was attached to.  She barked orders and he followed.  He was her best pupil. From birth, he'd been the most resilient of the group and, therefore, her favorite in some odd way.  After all, there was no affection in her to give. What perk could there be in Evil Incarnate taking a liking to you?

Phasma told herself that FN-2187 was chosen because he was the best.  She'd summoned him from his bunk in the middle of the night because if anyone could resist temptation, it was him.  If anyone could be re-conditioned afterwards, it was him.  If anyone could experience the sins of the light and find their way back into the darkness, it was her dear, dear FN-2187.  It had nothing to do with the way the halogen lighting lining the wall traced his deep, brown skin with neon edges.  So unlike the way it gave the pale cadets a pallor of imminent death.  It couldn't be the way his sculpted lips, full from every angle, caught her gaze, making her glad of the mask.  She watched those lips, instead of eyes, when he spoke.  When he smiled.

Because FN-2187 did smile.  More often than was allowed, honestly.  She could hear it in his voice even with the mask on.  He enjoyed things, from time to time.  He was proud of himself when the hallways gleamed like new.  Proud of how quickly he cleared tables after lunch.  Happy to work because he had some defect she'd never reported.

She wasn't lying to herself at all about his strength and malleability.  He'd been the easiest to break and break, again.  To keep rooted in the First Order's doctrine.  He believed and he was evil.  And he would never be weak, like her.  Never would he be taken by the light.  Choosing him for her experiment was because of his strength.

It had nothing to do with the way he dutifully fulfilled every task and order perfectly, yet still managed to go above and beyond.  She'd never reported his habit of saving her personal quarters for last while making his cleaning rounds.  She'd never documented how he thanked her every night for teaching him everything he knew. She'd never dwelled on the time he'd seen her, maskless and out of armor in the infirmary.  A thin, white shift dress barely covering the tops of her thighs.  How his head had canted downwards, making it obvious that his eyes were focused on the blonde froth of hair framing her sex.  How he'd asked after her health in the days that followed.  With something like care, if she truly remembered what care sounded like.

He had no reason to worry for her.  She was not human.  She'd lived long before him and would survive long after.  He could age and crinkle like paper into his hundredth year of life while she still had the look of a human only nearing 40.  Yet, his understanding of his own mortality had made him worry for her.  Care.  The sensation most likely foreign to them both.  Something she knew he wouldn't know how to name.

She'd known he was different, even as a child.  A quicker learner.  A more vicious and calculating fighter.  She knew he'd someday be her equal.  Surpass her, even.  She'd held him back in every way she could get away with.  Reported lower grades than he earned and ignored his soaring progress in all arenas.  She'd told herself it was jealousy.  Looking out for her own career in whatever way she could.  To be replaced by a fragile and breakable species would have been an insult not only to herself, but the entire First Order.  She could serve far longer than he and see far more.  She'd never admit to anyone, least of all herself, that she'd also wanted to protect him by making sure he ended up wielding a wastebasket instead of a weapon.

But then came THE weapon.

The prospect of another war.  This one larger than any the galaxy had seen before.  General Hux had given the order that all that served the First Order be made ready for combat.  That all experience their first kill long before Starkiller Base could first be used.  Phasma was to include her cadets.  Even the lowliest, placed in food, sanitation, laundry and clerical work.  She slotted FN-2187 for the last mission.  A tiny raid on Jakku.  A junkyard of a planet with barely enough guns to rob a small freighter.  He would be safe, there.  Safe to stir and sate the natural bloodlust that had been trained into him.

A good step in the re-conditioning process he would need after this experiment.  Something that leaned far too close to the light.

Pleasure.

"FN-2187," she began.  Her tone militant.   She paused.  A gloved hand on his shoulder.  "FN-2187..."

She had not instructed him to move his eyes or speak.  So, he remained nearly lifeless on the slanted gurney.  His feet angled toward the floor as his head angled toward the ceiling.  Almost as if he stood there of his own free will.  As if he'd seen her in that shift, weeks ago, and come to her with the intention of seeing more.  She could pretend he wanted this.  Yet, he didn't know what to want.  She'd have to show him.  Her voice had softened the second time she said his name and yet his eyes didn't flicker.

"At ease, FN-2187," Phasma commanded, this time her voice not quite so loud.  Not quite so demanding.  She always sounded exhausted when not giving orders and the only thing he did with his permitted ease was cut his eyes to the left and allow her to see his worry.  Worry for her weariness or worry for his own safety?  Did he imagine he was here for punishment?

"FN-2187, are you cold?"

The room was burning up, to her.  She was sweating and was sure her hair, which she'd foolishly styled -just so- before slamming on her helmet in disgust, was dripping and sticky.  Layers of reflective armor could do that to a woman.  Yet, with him nude, it seemed unfair to keep the climate icy.

"No," he responded and she thrilled at being able to hear his voice, again.  It had a richness and a cadence that soothed her.  Made the tired, bedtime visits of his feel relaxing.  Tiny vacations, every night.  She'd not had a vacation since joining the First Order.  There was no such thing.  Constant vigilance.  A complete submission to the glory of the Dark Side.  They were doing what was right for the galaxy and the tasks were grim.  Solemnity, rage, and focus their only allowed states of being.

"FN-2187," she started again.  Not sure why she liked the sound of his designation on her lips. "I am going to examine your body.  Do you... will you allow this... examination?"

Again, he used his ease only to move his eyes.  His brow furrowed slightly.  Confusion.

"Ah..." her nervousness was obvious even underneath the mask.  The way her head turned slightly as if doubting herself.  The way her shoulders tensed.  "For this kind of activity, it is important to ask permission.  This kind of exam cannot be done without your agreement."

He'd never been asked what he wanted in his entire life.  He'd never been asked if something was okay with him.  She'd not received such courtesy in all her years in the First Order.  Not even as a leader.  Her job, no matter how high she rose in the ranks was to defer to the rank above her.  She couldn't imagine the heavy weight of responsibility that rested at the Order's true peak.  To be the one person that passed orders down with nothing overhead.  To lead.  Truly and with knowledge that every success and failure was ultimately their victory or fault.  Phasma liked being somewhere in the middle.  Able to exert will, but not her own.  Able to lead others... into the arms of her masters.

Her nervousness wouldn't dissipate and his confused silence stretched on.

"Permission, FN-2187," she asked again.  Voice shaking despite her determination to stay in control.

"I am a tool of the First Order.  Steadfast in all..." he'd begun to recite their creed but Phasma interrupted him.

"No!" she stopped him, "You don't understand."

How could he understand?  She barely did and unlike her, he'd had no teenage fumblings.  Had never been accosted by an agent of the First Order.  Had never been made to submit with dangerous glee in his heart.  Had never been fucked by the rigid prig of someone he could barely remember though a haze of mind-altering power.  Had never dripped lust down his thighs at the thought of it happening, again.  A true innocent and evil's pawn all in one.  Such irony.

"FN-2187, I need your permission," she implored him.  She'd never been asked.  No matter how much her body betrayed her lust, she'd never been asked what she wanted.  When she wanted it.  How she wanted it.  A tool.  Like the receptacles men of low ranks used for emissions.  Quick, frantic pawing in a communal room designed specifically for the act. Every morning. Even at her rank, partners were not an option.  

Sexual desire corrupted.  Inspired free will and distraction.  Phasma used her free will to spend her nights dripping dew upon her sheets and her mornings breathing in the stench of 1000s of orgasms that permeated the locker rooms.  She could come and go, almost as she pleased.  She peeked, often.  Never once caught a glimpse of her dear, dear FN-2187.

When she'd been younger, she was a tall, wiry thing.  Thin and flat-chested.  Her body hovered at a nubile stage for decades.  Blonde ringlets and pouty-lips. She'd been sought out frequently for those that ruled.  She'd been used.  And she didn't want to use FN-2187.

But how could she not?

How could he ever give her a real answer?

She'd made him in all ways but physical.  It should have made her sick to even think of the heavy weight of his length resting, lifeless against his left thigh.  Like a mother nursing lurid fantasies of the son she'd suckled.  Yet, there was nothing like family in the First Order.  Everyone was a designated instrument of war.  Completely unrelated and yet all brothers in arms.  Memories of his childhood were hazy, anyway.  Damaged by years of wiping her own thoughts.  Scrubbing at her brain to keep the lust away.

And here she stood.  Sex throbbing and pants dripping from simply placing a gloved hand on her cadet's shoulder.  A shudder rumbled through her and she clenched her thighs, hard.  She had the sudden desire to bite his ear.  To whisper to him.  To make him understand what there was to experience and ask if he wanted it.  Wanted it with her.

Phasma ran a gloved hand down his chest, past flat nipples and sparse hair.  Down toned abdomen to haloed prick.  It was warm in her hand.  Even through the leather.  Warm and thick.

He couldn't help himself, then.  He yelped.  Shocked and still confused.  Her face jerked up toward him, her searching gaze evident in the movement of the mask.  He stared into the helmet.  Exactly where her eyes were.  His bewilderment warring obviously with his obedience.

"What..." he managed to gasp out as his prig began to bloat and fill as she stroked.  Her helmet canted down, again. To look at where she was touching him.  She thrilled at his body's reaction, but knew there could be no lust there.  Only biology at work and fear in his heart.  She let go.

"Captain Phasma," FN-2187 groaned out before biting his bottom lip.  He was growing rapidly and a clear bead of liquid bubbled on his tip. 

"Did you like...," she began to ask, but stopped when she realized his answer could only be a "Yes." A "Yes" because his erection wanted more contact and his hands weren't free.  She'd restrained him.  A "Yes" because she'd want a yes and she was his Captain and this was the First Order where the only order is to follow all orders without question.  He could never give her a true yes.  Something like guilt fluttered through her and she knew the darkness was losing her.

"I liked your white dress..." FN-2187 whispered.  Dangerously.  Risking admitting to her that he knew beauty.  That he knew pleasure.  Liquid seeped form his stand, dribbling forth in an unending, clear stream.  He twitched.  A groan.  Biceps flexing and face cringing he was panting and she stood by his side, transfixed by his pleasured anguish.

"The infirmary gown," she whispered to him.  Helmet close to his bare face.  His breath panting from those thick lips and fogging her vision.  She watched him quiver and gush.  Heard him whine with lust.  Completely wound up in an instant and unable to step back from the ledge that a single, wary touch had brought him to.

"You... your..." he whispered.  Face close as he leaned over.  Bottom lip dragging along the front of her mask.  She'd stepped forward without thinking.  Wanted to touch him again but couldn't shake the fact that he didn't know.  Didn't even have the words for what he'd seen.  For what he remembered at the moment that his cock was dripping and throbbing.  Breasts.  Mound.

"I'm," Phasma simply didn't know what to say.  Sorry?  Glad?  Aroused? "You liked seeing my body?"

"...your face.  I'm dying," he gasped out.  The clear river growing cloudy as his balls drew up.  She was shocked.  Oh, but of course he thought he was dying.  Pulling with a dry, gloved hand to force out an ejaculation in a room with one hundred other grunting men couldn't possibly compare to the touch of another.  The memory of pebbled nipples on firm breasts.  The only glance he'd ever had of a woman's sex.  He was oozing.  Cock bouncing up and down, desperate, but not quite ready to spurt.

She realized "your face" was in the tone of a request.  Like asking her to release access codes for her private rooms to be cleaned.

Warily.

Phasma reached up and clicked the stays on her helmet, slid it off.  Let him see her damp face and wet hair.  He stared into her blue eyes with something like terrified joy.

And she kissed him.

Nothing frantic.

No teeth.

No tongue.

Just a longing press of lips onto lips.

And she heard as he grunted against her closed mouth.  Heard the mechanical whir of the gurney as it fought to restrain his violent shudders. Heard as FN-2187 splattered forcefully and repeatedly against her metal armored thighs.


End file.
